We didn’t see many people in Krotz Springs. But we did see cats.
On porches, in tall grass, under trailers. Lounging in the shade or darting behind cars. For every cat we photographed, another vanished the moment we made eye contact—like shadows with whiskers. They weren’t strays. They belonged here. Not to anyone, necessarily, but to the town itself.
It felt like they were watching over things. Holding down the fort. Maintaining whatever uneasy truce exists between heat, stillness, and memory.
Someone clearly loves these cats—feeds them, tends to them. And while we didn’t always feel particularly welcome, the cats didn’t mind us. They had other things to do. Important business.
We heard that a fella goes from Krotz Springs to Melville to Simmesport and feeds the cats. I was only able to pet one pocket tiger.
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